


Muse

by Gretccheen



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bulges, F/M, Femdom, Implied/Mentioned Past Terezi Pyrope/Dave Strider, Minor/Mentioned Karkat Vantas/Terezi Pyrope, Minor/Mentioned Past Relationships, POV Second Person, PWP, Plus Size Aradia, Possibly OOC, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Xenobiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16806655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gretccheen/pseuds/Gretccheen
Summary: If you were older (much, much older, older than Van Gogh and Klimt and even Michelangelo), you would have sculpted her out of marble, out of bronze, out of whatever costly material you could get your hands on. Even then, you wouldn’t have been skilled enough to capture the raw beauty that forms her. You weren’t skilled enough, your hands too weak, too young, to understand the true devotion that comes from creating art of a Goddess. You do not know what Religion is, why it makes people weep and clutch at their chests, desperate to find answers to things they cannot see.But she, she is the closest thing to religion you had ever seen.





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I literally have no idea how to write smut but I love Dave x Aradia so much so...here she is...my contribution to this wonderful ship. I have so many feelings about Time players. 
> 
> Also!! I have no idea how to write Dave so! I did my best!! I hope you all enjoy

She is the closest thing to religion you have ever seen; she would make those stuffy artists keel over with how beautiful she is. Aphrodite would disappear from their lexicon; the Goddess of Beauty would be none other than one Aradia Megido. The color of blood would be considered holy; the ram considered sacred. Cries would turn into whispers, screams into prayers, the Madonna into the Handmaiden. You aren’t worthy of her, you know this, but when she looks at you there are stars in her eyes. She doesn’t care that your knees are scraped and your fingers calloused and your hands stained forever with blood. Your chest is bruised and battered and your spirit weary and when you dare to bare these wounds, these signs of weakness to her she whispers prayers that would make saints’ knees tremble and the priests weep. You do, too; you fall to your knees and shake and tremble because you are so, so unworthy of her and the praises she speaks.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have fallen in love. 

It’s a still day on the meteor. Karkat and Terezi are curled up doing god-knows-what in one of the corners, speaking in the weird, chirping language of theirs. John and Jade had vanished to go do “ecto-sibling bonding time,” whatever that meant. Rose and Kanaya had disappeared as well, with Rose only being _slightly_ intoxicated, and you were only _slightly_ impressed by that fact. And as for you, you were curled in your own corner, fiddling with the hem of your god-tier cape as you tried to block out Terezi’s laughter and the ache that it brought with it.

The soft pitter-patter of footsteps brought your attention (Had they finally decided to pity you and leave you the fuck out of their weird alien courtship rituals?) and you look up, startled by all the red that flooded your vision. “Dave!” The conversation around you stops, and you grip the hood of your god-tier hood tighter, swallowing around the lump that had suddenly formed in your throat (the one that had, truthfully, been there from the moment Terezi had stepped into the room). The blur of red begins to come into focus, and you know who it is, knew who it was the moment your name ring out into the cool metal room, but you were _not_ prepared for how it made your heart pound against your chest. 

“‘Sup, Megido?” You’re fucking proud of how level your voice is. It is truly a feet, to keep a level voice around a weird alien Goddess, one that later historians will crow about when you finally, finally get back to Earth and take your rightful place as...as what? Gods? Fuck, that thought didn’t sit well in your chest. Not in the slightest. You must have done something to give yourself away (that, or Aradia knows you better than you know yourself) because she pauses her excited bouncing and stares, wings fluttering behind her. She recovers quickly with a shake of her head and a laugh that echoes in the room and within your ribcage, startling your heart back into action fast than an EMT with a defibrillator.

“Rose said you could tell me about the human death-day cultures!” Ah, had she now. You’d have to have a long talk with your ecto-sister about just who you were comfortable talking about death with. But, you guess Aradia would have fallen into that list anyway. You’d say it was because she was a time player, and that she knew just as well as you did the heavy weight seeing yourself die left behind, but that answer didn’t feel right. Complete. Like answering C on a multiple-choice test when you had no idea what to pick and C just felt the closest. God, you hadn’t thought about school in ages. But now was not the time, because Aradia was still waiting for your reply, and you knew without having to check that Karkat and Terezi were listening to see how you would answer her.

So you don’t. You rise to your feet and ignore the creaking in your joints and the pains in your back from sitting hunched so long. Aradia squeals in glee, reaches for one of your hands, and takes off, giving you little time to adjust your stride to keep up with her. Terezi cackles in the background, says something that sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Karkat, but you push it to the back of your mind. You’ve got a perfect distraction in front of you, anyway.

Aradia’s hands were hot as fuck. They were like the molten steel from LOHAC, burning a permanent imprint on yours. Her nails dig a little into your fingers, but you don’t mind. It’s more grounding than holding onto your cape had been, and you’d take anything at this point. Focusing on the mass of curls and sheer red wings is a hell of a lot easier than the feeling of fabric under your calloused fingers. It’s made even easier by the fact that Aradia is rambling in a mix of Alternian and English, switching freely between the two when one language didn’t adequately express her excitement. You give an occasional hum, low and deep in the back of your throat that tended to read as an affirmative amongst the trolls. She gives a happy little trill whenever you do before easily bouncing back into her tangent.

You like the way she speaks, you realize just as she’s pulling you into her room. A voice in the back of your mind wonders if she could sing, and if she’d be willing to let you record it for tracks when you find the time to alchemize your gear again. The question is on your lips, but it refuses to come out as she releases your hand (and you’re left feeling empty, empty in a way you hadn’t felt since you cut it off with Terezi, empty in a way that you hadn’t felt since _Bro_ ). She practically skips over to a pile on the floor, and you’re thankful to see that it’s old towels and blankets that had been scattered across the meteor. Gracelessly she flops onto it, and you watch in fascination as her wings fold and disappear into her back.

Once they do she rolls over onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows to peer at you from behind her lashes. _God_ , she’s beautiful. You’re not sure how you hadn’t noticed until now. Subconsciously your hand finds your cape and you run your thumb across the fabric. Aradia doesn't push you, just softens her smile and rummages through her pile until she finds one to her liking, placing it across her lap. _She’s copying your gesture_ , you realize idly as you watch her run her hands over the fabric, eventually taking one of the corners in a tight grip. 

This should not frighten it as much as it does. You have faced monsters and aliens and _death_ more than any other person on this ship (except for Aradia). Sitting on a pile and discussing it with a girl you have realized is attractive should not make your knees shake and your heart threaten to beat out of your chest in a way that would make the scene in _Alien_ seem tame. You take a shaking breath, hating how it rattles against your ribcage, and take a hesitant step forward. 

Aradia smiles, and it’s different than all her other ones. The barest hint of amusement, all gentle curves and not flashes of sharper-than-normal canines. “Wanna join me?” She says, voice low and warm, and you realize what’s happening. She’s pitying you. _And you aren’t upset by it._ That thought startles you more than any other, and you have to dig your nails into your palm to remind yourself you have an image to keep. You settle beside her with much more grace than she had, and in an instant the towel in her lap (red, well-worn) is spread across yours as well. She presses herself against your side, and you can feel her heat through your clothes. It’s like standing next to lava all over again, but without all the unpleasantness that came with it. She’s burning you alive and you don’t have a single fuck to give anymore.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks softly, voice still tinged with the accent that came with speaking Alternian. Hers is stronger than some of the other trolls, but you found you liked the way it would mar her letters into something that was uniquely hers. The way she phrased it made it seem like she _knew_ , but it was just vague enough to allow you to choose which way this conversation went. Karkat would scream if he realized how “pale” the two of you were acting, but you didn’t give a fuck. Aradia was being nice, and she wouldn’t try to analyze your bullshit like Rose would, so you shift a little closer to her burning heat and whisper, “This is so fucked.”

“It is.” She isn’t trying to sugar coat it, but her voice is made of honey, so sweet it was almost artificial. It burns your insides, and you grip the towel across your lap for something to do with your hands. The two of you sit in relative silence for a while, Aradia humming a broken sort of lullaby under her breath as you stew. Eventually you whisper, “Does it bother you, being a God?”

“The closest thing we had on Alternia were our Ancestors. Most of us don’t even know who ours are. What are human Gods like?”

“Fucking assholes,” you reply, and she snorts in response. “Nobody is sure there even is a God actually out there. They just...close their eyes and hope that whoever’s listening is on their side.”

“You’d make a good God,” she says, before carefully rising to her feet. Aradia doesn’t turn to look at you as she walks out the room, and any objections are silenced by the unfurling of her wings. “See you!” She chirps, and you nod stupidly to the back of her, watching as she skips out of the room. You lean back against the wall, not caring about how your head hits it with more force than it should. “You too, Megido,” you say into the stillness. “You too.”

\---

You’re not sure how long it takes, but eventually Aradia comes back. You’re half asleep when she does, and she looks as tired as you feel. There’s a faint red glow coming from her wings, and she stills when she sees you. “Guess even Gods get tired,” she giggles to herself. The room is filled with the soft sound of her footsteps, and the metal floor creaks as she kneels beside you. _Don’t blow your cover, fuckass_ , you think to yourself, holding your breath as she reaches out to touch your cheek. “I wonder if it’s comfortable, sleeping with those on.” Those. Your shades. It’s not, but you bite back your reply and release a shaky exhale. She traces them, brings her finger down to trace the outline of your nose, traces the divut of your cupid’s bow, and then brings it back up to run them through your bangs. “Humans are so soft,” she whispers, excitement filling her features. You almost wish your shades were off so you could see it in its full glory. 

Aradia carefully reaches for the red towel the two of you had been using earlier that day, gently maneuvering you to get it out from underneath you (and you help her, moving as subtly as possible). She throws it over you, gently tucking it around your “sleeping” form. It barely reaches your waist, and you can see the beginning of a frown on her face, but she simply shakes her head and grabs another one to throw over you legs. Her fingers trace your face one more time, around your ears and the outline of your chin, before resting on your throat. For a few moments she lets them sit there, and you hardly breathe. “I’ll be back,” she promises, making you wonder if she knew you were awake.You watch her leave again, the burning in your chest more than just your lungs forgetting how to breath, and only when the room is cast in darkness again do you breathe.

You untangle your hands and bring the towel close to your face, inhaling deeply. You feel like one of those girls in those shitty romcoms Karkat liked to watch when the main romantic lead gets her boyfriend’s shirt and decides to use it as a pillowcase, or something equally ridiculous. But...it’s kind of nice, in a way. It definitely smells like her. The rusty, metallic scent that reminds you of the way blood tastes and the way steel feels against bare skin underneath the Texan sun. There’s something earthier, too. Almost musty. Probably what Lucy smelt when she opened the wardrobe on her way to Narnia. Mothballs and old cotton and well-worn fur coats.

She’ll be back soon, that much you know. But for now your content to breathe in the scent of her and bask in warmth that was fading from your face. You had never thought about her like this before. Then again, not even Terezi had touched you like Aradia had. The teal-blood was all sharp edges and lanky joints and nails that dug just enough to bleed. Cackling and elbows digging into ribs and the passionate connection of lips. Never like this. Never gentle, never soft. Aradia was soft hands and curves and giggles; she was the tentative whisper of odd questions you would never dare to ask another soul and the warmth of blankets straight from the dryer. Terezi was pity. Aradia was...Aradia was…

Fuck. You were not ready for this. Tomorrow, during your long talk with Rose, you were going to ask her for a drink of the hardest liquor she had. You’d even let Kanaya bite you if it got you out of your head long enough to process your revelation. _Aradia Megido, huh. Bro would have liked her._ Nope. Not thinking about it. You bury your face deeper in the fabric and groan. It was going to be a _long_ night.

\---

True to her word, Aradia does come back, wings tucked safely into her back. She padded into the room in an oversized sweatshirt that looked like it could have been one of yours, if you didn’t already know that none of your clothes had any chance of fitting her. You don’t think she’s wearing any pants, and it makes it that much harder to breathe when she turns on one of the lamps and you are suddenly able to see all of her leg in gorgeous technicolor.

If it makes it better, she’s wearing socks, thigh-highs colored to match her god-tier outfit, symbol and all, leaving a thick strip of grey skin visible. She turns towards you, grins, and pads over to you. Carefully she kneels next to you, and your so close to that naked bit of skin that if you moved half-an-inch your lips could be pressed against it. _That_ sends a thrum of arousal through you, and you hear Aradia giggle, and one of her hands is on you again. You sigh at the contact, and she makes a low trill, running her fingers through your hair, nails scratching lightly against your scalp. “Miss me?” She asks, and in your sleep haze you make a noise of agreement. “That so? Well, I missed you too.” 

Aradia playfully ruffled your hair before inching back, and you make a needy whine in the back of your throat. The sound of her movement stops, and _God, you’ve ruined it, way to go, Strider,_ but she simply shakes her head and continues to where she had been going, which was right next to your head. Again, she carefully tries to move you in your sleep, and this time you don’t dare to help her. She guides your head to her lap, urging you to roll over in the process. Which you do. It’s far more comfortable, especially since your shades are no longer digging into the side of your face. You think that’s half the reason she did it. 

Her fingers find your hair again, and she makes an inhuman noise that you’re surprised to find doesn’t frighten you. Instead, it sends another wave of arousal through you, and you subtly try to move the fabric so she can’t see your erection. You can see her head tilt to look in the direction of your shifting hands and still. Aradia traces behind your ear, applying pressure where your neck met the area behind it. This time you do make an audible noise, a breathy sort of moan that could have been “fuck” if you had put a bit more force behind the k.

“Dave?” She inquires, and you know the jig is up.

“Yeah,” you mumble, voice light and breathy because she’s still applying pressure in that spot and you’re sure you’re going to see stars if she doesn’t let up soon.

“Sorry!” She says, not sounding sorry at all. You give a little huff of laughter and move to sit up. Her free hand comes to rest on your chest, and you make a startled noise. “You can stay,” she says, sounding almost shy. “If you’d like.”

You don’t trust yourself to answer, so you settle back against her lap. The pressure behind your ear lessons some, and you try not to make a disappointed noise. Cool-kid schtick and whatnot. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” you intone, tilting your head back to look at her.

“Baby?” She hums in thought. “Oh! A human wriggler! Do they really sleep so easily?”

“Nope.” Aradia snorts, and your heart skips a beat. You like the face she makes when she laughs, like the way her nose crinkles and her shoulders rise up to meet her ears (pointed, unlike Karkat’s, but without coming to as sharp a point as Vriska’s or Terezi’s. Like a half-elf, if you were into that sort of thing, which you weren’t). Before you can realize what you’re doing--you’re too caught up in the yellow of her scalera and the burgundy of her irises--your hand reaches up and touches the mass of curls, reaching far enough that your nails brush against the spine of her ears. Fuck. You’ve got to salvage this, because her eyes have gone wide and the fingers in your hair have stilled. “Aliens are weird.” Fucking _smooth_ , Strider, way to _fucking_ go. 

“I could say the same to you!” She says brightly, her nails scratching lightly against your scalp. Aradia’s face is flushed, and you twine your fingers around her curls. You are so fucked. Her hair is soft as shit, soft as clothes soaked in fabric softener, soft as god tier clothes, and you want more; you want to curl your fingers in her hair and pull her close to find out if her lips are just as soft as her hair.

Wait. Hold on. Back this train back into rational thought station. You have been out of a relationship for what? Two months (You know the exact time, down to the second, but it hurts to think about it)? And now here you are, head in the (admittedly plush) lap of a beautiful alien Goddess. And you want to kiss her. Badly. It’s like an ache in your chest, the place where the sword would had been if you were Davesprite, getting closer and closer to your dangerously vulnerable heart. It’s a desperate, almost primal urge, and you tighten your grip on her curls and take as shaking inhale.

“Dave?” Her voice is a whisper, a siren’s song, and you nod to show that you’re listening. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Hell yeah.” Your breath hitches, your heart pounds a tattoo against your ribcage, and you let your hand fall unceremoniously to your side.

“I think I pity you.” She bends over to whisper it against your forehead, leaving a burning sensation that trails down your spine. “No, wait! Rose told me I had to say it like this: I love you!”

“Are you shitting me?” It comes out raspy, because she had taken all your breath away.

“No,” there’s no cheer, she’s serious, dead serious, and it shakes you to your core. “I mean it.”

“Hold on a second What do you mean...Rose told you to say I love you.”

“Well, I asked for advice on your human courtship rituals. She and Kanaya were very helpful.” The cheer is back, lips curling into a smile. She’s pulled back enough that you can see her, and you know the answer before it leaves your lips, before it even crosses your mind to say it. Strider instinct has kept you alive this long, and its influence still runs strong, because instead of answering properly you bring your hand up to tightly grip her curls and pull her the rest of the way down, pressing your lips together.

It’s everything the movies say it is. A kiss that causes fireworks. The kind of kiss that romance novels write about in excruciating detail. Her lips are a brand against your own, and you know there’s no coming back from this. Time has stopped (maybe even literally, because there’s a reddish glow you can make out even behind your closed eyes), and Aradia meets every movement of your lips like she had seen it coming. It was as natural as breathing, as natural as the sun shining down on Texan blacktop, as natural as living and dying. The glow fades, and Aradia pulls back. You let your eyes flutter open, and Aradia is staring back at you, face flushed a brilliant shade of burgundy.

“Wow,” she breathes, smiling widely, and her warmth fills your chest in a way that it’s never been before. Aradia brings one hand to cup your cheek, letting her thumb brush over your lips. You hum and she giggles. “Can we do that again?”

“Hell yeah,” you can feel your lips curl into a grin. “Let me sit up and kiss you proper. Chivalry and whatnot. Gotta be a knight, after all.” Aradia laughs again and removes her hands. You prop yourself up, groaning for comedic effect (it works--she snorts again, and it makes your heart swell). As soon as you’re up she’s on you, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you to your chest. It’s awkward, because you aren’t facing her, and her chest is pressed against your shoulder. She presses her lips to your cheek, giggling as she did so.

“Now what, Megido?” You say, turning your head to watch her. She’s so expressive. It’s a nice change of pace. Aradia shrugs, pulls away and makes a gesture that you interpret to mean “Turn, fuckass”. Which you do, ignoring the dull ache in your knees and the numbness that comes from being asleep so long. Aradia cups your face in her hands, trilling, and you feel your face heat up. She brushes her thumbs across your cheeks, her expression so fond it makes you squirm. “You are very pitiable,” she cooes. “And very Godlike.”

“I want to worship you,” you blurt with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. Aradia’s expression doesn’t change, and she leans forward to give you another searing kiss. She urges you forward, and you crawl forward, eventually setting on top of her lap. One of her hands settles on your hip, the other reaching up to thread through your hair. “Then do it,” she says as you part for air, voice low. “Is this a human tradition, worshiping their matesprit?”

“Sometimes,” you say with a shrug. “It’s more common to worship Gods and Goddesses, though.”

“Oh?” She says playfully. “Then I guess I should worship you, too.”

“Later,” you mumble, reaching up to run your fingers through her hair. “Right now, it’s about you. Let me do this for you.” Aradia trills again, slips her fingers underneath your shirt. Her nails drag along your sides, and she watches your face curiously. “Can I take your shades off?”

“Yeah,” you reply, scrambling to take them off. “Yeah.” She pulls back to let your arms move without hitting her, and you set them aside. Aradia trills, low and almost animal, and it sends heat through your entire being. “Beautiful,” she says lowly, bringing her hands up to cup your face. “Beautiful, beautiful boy. A God among men.” You shudder, hands gripping the fabrics next to you because you aren’t sure what to do with your hands. God, you’re not prepared at all for this. Not even your brother’s weird porn could have prepared you for this.

“Can I kiss you?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and she kisses you deeply. Hesitantly you bring your hands up and run them through her hair. Aradia hums in appreciation, especially when you come closer to her horns. She appreciates your need for air (you don’t know _how_ she holds her breath for so long), pulling back whenever your grip tightens. When you pull back and move towards her neck she hums, shifting to accommodate you. From what you know, troll skin is tougher than human, so you’ll have to work to leave a mark, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try.

“Aradia,” she trills in response, “can I leave marks?”

“What a gentleman. You don’t have to ask, Dave. Just do.” Well, that was a yes if you had ever heard one. Roughly you move the collar of her sweatshirt aside and press your lips against her neck, earning a low growl in response. Her nails dig into your hips, and you involuntarily rock against her. Fuck, did that feel good. You nip at her neck and grind against her hips again, letting a hiss escape when her nails dig into your hips. She mumbles something in Alternian that makes your blood boil, heat pooling low in your stomach.

One of her hands comes up to thread through your hair, gently holding you in place. “You can bite,” she murmurs. “I’m not fragile.” You know she’s not. None of you are ragile anymore, not after this damn game, but you want to treat her as something delicate. Because she’s beautiful, and beautiful things are treated as if they are made of glass. You want to tell her, explain your human logic that will sound idiotic when compared to her alien customs, but the words are caught in your throat. So, you sink your teeth into her the juncture between her neck and shoulder as hard as you can, an ode to troll and their “barbaric” customs. You know it’s not as powerful as one of her troll brethren, but when Aradia keens you feel a sense of pride. The nails on your hip dig painfully into your skin, but neither of you seem to mind. You certainly don’t, with how it makes your vision flood with white and send pinpricks of pleasure along your spine.

When you pull back there’s the beginnings of a bruise on her neck, and _Wow, that’s fucking hot, way to go, Strider_. Aradia shakes her head, laughing, and she lets you guide her back to lay on top of the blankets. “Hey,” she whispers, sounding completely breathless.

“Hey, yourself,” you murmur back, adjusting the way your knees sit against the outsides of her thighs. Her sweatshirt had ridden up enough that you can see her tummy and the burgundy, lacy panties she’s wearing. She smirks, eyes going half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and she reaches her arms up to wrap around your neck. “Like what you see?” Aradia purrs, lacing her fingers together. There aren’t enough words in any language in the world to properly answer her, so you brush your fingers along the bruise you made and let it trail down towards the collar. There’s so much more of her that you want to see. Your expression must be obvious (or at least, more so than when you wear your shades) because she lifts herself enough to whisper against your lips to say “You can take it off, you know.”

God, it’s like she’s promised you eternity. She lets her arms lower and raises them above her head. You raise her sweatshirt up slowly, throat growing dry with every inch of grey skin that is revealed. She has no navel, which strikes you as odd, instead having six, raised, scar-like things along her sides. They’re the same color as her blush, her eyes, her blood, and you want to press kisses to the delicate skin between them, whisper praises along they’re curved edges, because they’re beautiful. Every part of her is beautiful. From her round, pudgy stomach and her thick thighs to her fluttering lashes and lips painted with lipstick that’s begun to fade and smear.

If you were older (much, much older, older than Van Gogh and Klimt and even Michelangelo), you would have sculpted her out of marble, out of bronze, out of whatever costly material you could get your hands on. Even then, you wouldn’t have been skilled enough to capture the raw beauty that forms her. You weren’t skilled enough, your hands too weak, too young, to understand the true devotion that comes from creating art of a Goddess. You do not know what Religion is, why it makes people weep and clutch at their chests, desperate to find answers to things they cannot see.

But you’re finally beginning to put the pieces together. Every part of her makes your heart flutter, makes it leap dangerously into your throat, making you choke. You’re hopelessly, pitifully in love with her. And she knows it. You’ll be damned if you don’t shower her in the same devotion; you’d rather die than not worship her like the good Catholic boys you’d seen on TV. You don’t have what they have--no altar, no wine, no high-ceilinged churches to give her a proper offering; there’s no confessional to whisper your sins or holy water to wash them away. All you have is the metal of the meteor’s walls to form a church; nothing but worn towels and blankets to make an altar. The tears beginning to coat your lashes will form holy water, and wine, well, you’ll come to that later. For now, you’ll pour your heart and soul into showing her that her body is the only temple you will ever need and you, a helpless, foolish mortal, have committed the ultimate sin and have fallen in love with a Goddess.

You slide the sweatshirt off of her and set it to the side, taking in Aradia in all of her splendor. She smiles shyly at you, arms still placed above her head. Carefully she arches her back, unintentionally showing off the red lace of her bra and bringing her hips up to meet yours in a way that only fuels the fire inside of you. Shamelessly you rock against her, bringing one hand to reach up and touch her wrists. You can feel her pulse point. It reverabtes within you, faster than it probably should be, but a reminder that she’s _alive_. You both are. She grins at you, rocks her hips up again, and teasingly says, “Aren’t you going to worship your Goddess?”

_Fuck_ , were you a goner. You let your hand linger for a moment longer before trailing it down the length of her arm. She shudders, arching impossibly further. You take a moment to trace her horns, bringing up your other hand to trace the curling mass of keratin. She trills lightly, and you let your nails scrape against the rugged edges. After a few moments you bring your hands down to cup her face. She’s adorable, you decide, with her round face and scrunched up nose and curls that go wherever they damn well please, even when she angrily huffs to try and blow them out of the way. You brush them away, tuck them reverently behind her ears, and lean down to press your lips against her. Unlike your other kisses, this one was slow, relishing in every movement.

When you pull back she’s smiling (she’s always smiling, always warm, always _alive_ ), and you press a kiss to the corners of it. And then one on her cheek, right beside her ear. Then to her nose. She giggles at each one, giving little lifts of her hips with each one. Enough to keep the heat between your legs pooling there. You let your hands trail down her neck, tracing the bruise yet again. You outline her collar bones, find the dip between them, and press a kiss there as well. She brings her arms back down, and you rub at her shoulders, mouthing lightly at the skin then where her arms still. 

Time has stilled again. There’s no rush, there’s never a rush with her. The two of you have time. With Terezi, you felt like you never had enough. You were always afraid, afraid Gamzee would go too far, would wrap his hands around her slender neck and snap it in one easy motion. Worried he would dig his nails too deep and bang her head against the wall one too many times. You were afraid to see teal splattered against the already blood-stained walls, memories left behind of trolls you couldn’t save. Another mistake. Another fuck up. Another moment of failure. A reminder that you were a shitty knight, that you hadn’t just failed your session, but theirs as well.

“Dave,” Aradia whispers, bringing up those beautiful, warm hands to guide you back the present. Gentle, always gentle, and you feel like crying, like screaming, but the words just won’t come out. Nobody treated you like this. Not Bro, not Terezi, not even Rose. Not like you were something fragile, something delicate, something _broken_. It was always rough, always bloodied, always bruised. A choked noise escapes, something that could have almost, almost been her name. She smiles. Brings her hands to your cheeks and brushes her thumbs under your eyes to wipe at the tears that had begun to spill.

You aren’t sure how long you sit there (which is odd, but you’re sure Aradia has something to do with it), choking on air as Aradia murmurs phrases that get lost in your head. But they’re soothing, warm, and she stays, even though you know it must ache to arch up like that. She pats your face, something you know is meant to be a comforting gesture, and it only makes your shoulders shake and the tears come harder. Eventually she manages to get you to lay down, and she settles over you like it was the easiest thing in the world. She says words you don’t understand, even when they’re English, but she tugs at your hood until you raise shaking hands to help her remove it. Your shirt comes next, and you can’t bear to look at her as she studies your chest and the array of scars it bears.

She reverently traces them with her fingers, bringing warmth wherever they go. She traces your collar bones, leans down and presses a kiss to the dip between them. Her lips move along the column of your neck, gentle, slow, like there’s all the time in the world. With every shaking breath she presses another kiss, traces another scar, brings warmth to your freezing body. She gets to your jaw and presses kisses there too. Brings a hand to trace the shell of your ear and thread through your hair. A kiss to your cheek. To your nose. To your forehead. To the tear tracks.

“Can I kiss you?” She whispers, voice low like she’s talking to a wounded animal. Soothing, gentle. You nod, and she kisses you, just as gentle, just as delicate, just as careful. You bring your hands up and thread them through her hair to hold her close, to keep her close, because you afraid, so, so afraid, of being empty again. Of losing the warmth of quite possibly the only gentle embrace you’ve ever had.

She pulls back and studies you. “Beautiful,” she breathes. “A God. I’ll clean up this mess, okay? It’s my job, after all.” She giggles, but it’s dangerously watery. You move your hands to her horns and use them as leverage to pull yourself up. She lets you, moves her hands to your back to support you as you pull her close so your chests press together. Your chin rests on her shoulder, and her hands are splayed as wide as they possibly can so she can give you as much of her warmth as possible.

You are the first to pull away, letting Aradia guide you back into the blankets. “I’ll prove it to you. That you’re a God. I’ll be your very first follower.” The words are whispered into your forehead, and she shifts into a more comfortable position. “Dave. If you wanna stop...you’ve got to tell me, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, too afraid to speak any louder. She hums, tracing along your chest. Her fingers brush against your nipples and you gasp. She raises an eyebrow, grins, and does it again. You arch your back, fingers gripping the sheets. Each touch is too light, but not in a teasing way. It’s like she’s afraid to be rough with you. Frustrated (because you’re aroused, you’re greedy, because she’s making you see stars just from this) you reach up and guide her head to your chest. “Please,” you whine, which only makes you more embarrassed, and she laughs against your chest.

She seems to get the idea, even if she doesn’t know what they are (at least, you think she doesn't know), pressing her lips against your right as her hand comes up to brush the left. You make an animalistic noise, rocking your hips against hers. Easily she meets your hips with a much smoother motion of her own, trilling. God, you’re going to come undone before she’s even halfway through. She pulls back, blows on the nipple she had been sucking, and moves to the other. You shudder, reaching to grab the wrist of the hand that had settled by your shoulder to help support you. She’s bent awkwardly, still settled over your pelvis to meet the rocking of your hips, and you know it’s got to be uncomfortable, but before you can voice your concerns her teeth scrape against your nipple and you’re swearing, a low “fuck” escaping your lips as she does it again.

When she pulls back to study you again she grins, looking almost animalistic in the low lighting. She pointedly rolls her hips, watching your face contort as you arch up to meet her. God, you could lose it just from watching her. Her movements were more fluid than yours, clearly in control of the surge heat pooling in her stomach. She was was inhuman, ethereal, and you loved her, god, did you love her. Her lips curl into a grin as she rocks against you again, lightly dragging her nails along your torso.

You watch as her hands move downward, and as she scoots back your gaze travels to the lace of her panties and _holy fuck, Karkat wasn’t kidding when he said tentabulge_. Peeking out is something only a few shades darker, and it’s dripping. “Sorry,” Aradia says, sounding shy. “I know it’s weird.” 

“No, it isn’t.” It is, but it’s a part of her, and she isn’t weird, she’s _beautiful_. She smiles, grateful, and gives the smallest tug on the waistband of your pants. You raise your hips, and she tugs them down, carefully guiding your legs out, one at a time. She gracelessly tosses them aside with a giggle before dragging her nails along your legs. Aradia bows her head, and presses a kiss to each of your knees before spreading them. You know there’s an obvious tent in your boxers, only getting worse as the troll bends to mouth at the skin of your thighs. “Shit!” 

You watch as she fumbles around for her sweatshirt, digging through the pocket before making a triumphant noise and returning to the space between your thighs. She reaches up and you watch, amazed, as she pulls her hair into a ponytail, roughly taming rambunctious curls into something manageable. Aradia leans forward, placing her hands on your shoulders for leverage, and kisses you. She pulls back before it can get too deep, applying more pressure to keep you down when you rise to chase her. There’s a charged moment while the two of you just stare at each other, Aradia’s expression molding into something bordering cocky while yours, well, yours probably turns into something resembling a lovestruck fool.

She guides your legs to rest on her shoulders, pressing her hips flush to your revived erection. Her hands trail down your torso, brush against your nipples, and then come back up to rest by your head. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, running her fingers through your hair. You arch up into her, baring your neck, because you’ve studied animals, and this is as submissive a gesture as any. Trolls seem more animal than alien to you, so you figure that some of their tricks will work here.

It does.

Aradia growls, almost feral, and she presses her lips against the column of your neck. She bites hard enough that you’re worried she’ll draw blood, and then she _sucks_ , just as hard, and you know that it's going to bruise for weeks, going to leave a reminder that you have someone to come back too. She pulls back, admires her handiwork, and then kisses and nips her way to the other side. You claw at the blankets, digging your heels into her shoulders as you let out noises that would put a porn star to shame. “Fuck, Aradia,” you groan, “fuck me.”

“Can I?” She retorts playfully, pulling back to look at you.

“Please,” you whine, pointedly grinding against her to make sure your point was clearly made. If she left you now, you’d probably keel over and die, or something equally dramatic. Aradia laughs and pulls away, the chill left in her wake frightening. You move to follow her, chasing after the warmth she brings, but she places a hand on your chest and shakes her head. “Lay on your stomach for me?” When you don’t immediately do what she asked she pouts, pushing lightly on your shoulders. “Do I have to beg, Dave?” She leans forward, whispers the words against your ear. “Please, please lay on your stomach so I can stare at your ass while I prep you for my writhing bone-bulge.”

You let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan, nodding your assent. Gently she guides your legs from her shoulders, pausing to rub at the places where your heels had dug. She takes a few moments to rub the tension from your legs, pressing kisses to your knees as she does so. You sigh at the contact, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch as she reverently massages your ankle. “Humans are so neat,” she coos. “Do all humans have hair on their legs?”

“More or less. Some get rid of it.”

“Why? It’s so _cool_.” There’s such awe in her voice that you feel yourself flush, toes curling in embarrassment. “You’ve got it on your arms, too. No wonder you guys are so soft.” Aradia runs her hands up your legs, rubs them down your thighs and then does the same thing backwards, lightly dragging her nails the second time around. Every touch sends pinpricks of pleasure along your spine, makes the heat pool in your stomach and amplify every sensation. “Your horns,” you begin, whining when she begins to rub the inside of your thighs. “I like them. They’re cool.”

“High praise, coming from the cool kid himself,” Aradia purrs, nuzzling against your knee.

“Could go on forever about how cool you are.” It comes out too high, too breathy, because the troll choses that moment to begin sucking a bruise on your thigh.

“Later,” she promises, brushing her thumb over the purpling spot. “For now, why don’t you let me take care of you? In the Human fairy tales, the Knight is always the one protecting the Maid, and then she does nothing but moan and cry while he ravishes her after saving her from the dragon.” You have a sinking suspicion the fairy tales he was reading weren’t fairy tales at all, but keep your mouth shut. “Well, I want to ravish you. You’ve done enough saving for one adventure, I think.” You both know that the sentiment is false, that you’re going to be doing a lot more saving as long as the damn game is still playing. She can see Time just as well as you can (perhaps even more so, being “maid” of it). Aradia must know, must have an inkling of just what went on in that Houston apartment, and her actions speak of her knowledge. No one was gentle with you, no wished to make you cry in pleasure and writhe against the mattress, helpless to your desires. The world was cruel to you, it always was, and happiness like this was always fleeting.

But she, she was offering you something religion never had. A sanctuary, a sense of peace, a feeling of...Hope. And you would take it, take it with selfish, greedy hands, because you were so, so _tired_. “I love you,” you whisper, desperate, and Aradia hums. “I pity you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your knee. “Roll over, darling. I’ll take care of you.” Aradia guides you on to your stomach, pressing close to you to rub some of the tension from your shoulder. You didn’t have any lube, and you hadn’t seen Aradia bring any. _She’s not going to go in dry, is she?_ Before you can voice your concerns the troll is pressing searing kisses along your spine, causing your words to come out as garbled moans. She trills in response, gently kneading your hips. Carefully she slips her fingers under the waistband of your boxers and slides them down. Aradia makes a surprised noise, and you’re surprised that she doesn’t immediately reach out and touch. As if reading your thoughts she chirps, “This discovery requires a bit of an _excavation_ ,” and before you can ask just what she’s implying by that you feel something warm and wet press against your taint.

Aradia brings one hand to hold back one ass cheek as she presses sloppy kisses to your asshole, the other a steadying presence on your hip. You writhe underneath her, burying your face into your arms as you let out a slew of curse words. Her tongue easily begins to loosen the ring of muscle, and after a moment she pulls back, puffing warm breaths of air that makes you shudder. You’re harder than you’ve ever been; you’re so close to an orgasm you can almost taste it. There’s the sound of sucking, and after about a minute you hear an obscene _pop_ and feel something slick and solid press against your asshole. “Breathe,” she coaches gently, slowly easing her finger in. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to relax despite the odd feeling of the sudden insertion. She leans forward and presses a kiss to the base of your spine, murmuring soothing nothings that send pinpricks of heat along your skin. 

Aradia crooks her finger and you whine. She begins stretching you painfully slowly, leisurely pulling her finger in and out. After a moment she presses her lips against your entrance again, tongue slipping next to her finger and making you feel impossibly full. You’re still only at one finger, but you’re already so close, the fire in your abdomen more like an inferno. The wet sound of her eating you out only increases it, and you let out a garbled mess of swears and her name because _Fuck, Aradia, it feels so fucking good_. 

She pulls back again, bringing both her tongue and finger with her, and you make a pitiful noise at the loss. Aradia giggles, whispers a searing phrase in Alternian before you can hear the tell-tale sound of her sucking her fingers again. This time she slides two into your entrance, and she’s barely pressed them in and your breathing is already ragged. You push back, desperate for more, but she still slides them in slowly, carefully, the feeling of her nails digging into your hip alleviating some of the burning sensation that came with being stretched. Her fingers explore just as carefully, gentle and thorough, scissoring and crooking until finally, finally, she finds whatever it is she’s looking for.

You’re not stupid. You know what your prostate is, but _fuck_ , they weren’t kidding when they said it would make you see stars. You think you’re in the running for the most primal noise of the evening. Aradia makes one equally feral in response, brushing against the spot with a bit more pressure. _Fuck_ , if she keeps doing that you’re not gonna last. _C’mon, Dave, get your head out of your ass (hah) and tell her; you wanna feel her inside you, don’t you?_

“Aradia,” you groan, and the fingers inside you still. “‘m not gonna last if you keep that shit up.”

“Do you think you can handle it?” She asks softly. “I’m not _big_ but, compared to a human bulge…” She emphasizes her words by reaching her other hand down and hesitantly stroking it. You buck into her hand, too far gone to be embarrassed. “I’ll be fine,” you mutter. “I can handle it. C’mon, Megido, do I have to beg?” 

“That would be a first,” she says, teasingly stroking your length again.

“C’mon, Aradia, I’m dying down here.” You whine, causing her to laugh. She releases your length and slowly eases her fingers out of you. There’s the sound of shuffling behind you, and then something warm and slick is pressed against your entrance. “Dave,” she whispers, sounding more serious than you had ever heard her. “If it hurts, or if it’s too much, tell me to stop. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, breathless. “Yeah.” She hums, and you feel the warm, twisting mass of her bulge slowly begin to penetrate you. It’s warm, warmer than even she was, and she stills as the tip settles in, twisting and wriggling around your entrance, loosening it further. The hand at your length strokes slowly, her way of trying to ease the pressure and to get you relax. It wasn’t bad, not yet, slimmer than her fingers, but not by much. After a moment she pushes further in, the heat only increasing with the stretch. You hear her swear above you, a low sort of groan that makes you whine in response.

Again Aradia stills, letting you adjust to the stretch. Her hand still leisurely strokes at your length, just enough to keep your arousal at its peak. As much as you just want her to get it over with, you appreciate the care she’s taking with you. She presses forward again and you let out a cry because _fuck_ was it thick, thicker than a dick, that’s for sure. The cry you make is pathetic, and leans forward to press kisses along your spine. “I know, Dave,” she coos, “you’re doing so good for me.”

“It hurts,” you whine, because it does, it fucking _burns_ , but it feels good, too, the molten heat in your insides brings your arousal to a fever pitch. You can feel her bulge twisting further inside you, seemingly unaware of the troll’s concern and desire to keep things slow. “Do you want me to pull out?” Aradia asks sweetly, already beginning to pull back.

“You better go back in if you do,” you hiss. The troll growls, pulling back until just the tip of her bulge was inside. Again, she slowly eases it inside you, causing you to groan. Once she is fully sheathed inside of you she gives a tentative roll of her hips, tip of her bulge brushing against your prostate. “Right fucking there,” you cry into the blankets, earning another, much more confident thrust of her hips. “Fuck, Aradia.”

“Humans are so tight,” she hisses, rocking into you. “You’re so _tight_.” 

“If you keep touching me, I won’t last,” you gasp. “I want this to last.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world.” She giggles as she says it, purposely picking up her pace. Her hand easily matches the new rhythm and you swear, clawing desperately at the fabric around you. The hand not on your has come up to thread through your hair, lightly tugging on the strands. Aradia gives a sudden, rough thrust, tugging your head back as she does so and, fuck, you’re so _close_. “I wanna see you,” she purrs. “Roll over?”

You don’t have time to mourn the empty feeling when she pulls out, because the moment you’re on your back she’s inside of you again, desperately tipping forward to kiss at you. She’s almost feral, biting at your lips and drawing you impossibly closer. You wrap your arms around her neck, tangling your fingers in her hair. There’s no rhythm to her thrusts anymore, each one a sporadic rut of her hips against yours, burying her deeper inside you. This close, you can feel the beat of her heart, and you’re sure she can feel yours too. When she pulls back, it’s like you’re seeing her for the first time; it’s like when Christians die and go to heaven and bask in the face of God.

She’s beautiful, so, so beautiful. Aradia smiles widely when she notices you staring, teasingly slowing her thrusts as she watches your expression change with each one. “I could watch you forever,” she says, and that is what pushes you over the edge, back arching and toes curling as you cry out her name. Aradia’s speed picks up as you ride out your orgasm, and with a soft trill she spills her own into your overstimulated body. You watch her face contort, watch her eyes flutter shut and her lip be drawn between her teeth. She hovers over you for a moment, panting, and you lovingly brush sweaty curls away from her face. “Hey,” she breathes, studying you.

“‘Hey’ yourself.”

“You okay?”

“‘f fine. Kinda gross, but what can you do?” She laughs, though her expression changes to one of concern when you wince as she begins to pull out. “I’m fine. Sore.”

“I can carry you to the shower?” She offers, and you grin lopsidedly at her. Aradia laughs, takes a moment to roll her shoulders and crack her back, before saying, “I love you.” It hits you like an arrow in the chest, sudden and piercing and _fuck_ , you’ve got to win this game, got to get home, got spend the rest of your life with this wonderful goddess as her Knight. “I love you,” you whisper back, whisper it back like it’s something delicate, something _sacred_. Maybe it is? Who are you to say? You’re the Knight of Time, not Seer of Heart. Aradia throws her head back and laughs, and you can’t help but think that if you had to go back, you would play it again.

All for the sake of finding her--your Adonis, your Galatea, your _muse_ \--and seeing her smile again.


End file.
